


Special Ration

by justanotherStonyfan



Series: Honey Honey [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Background Others - Freeform, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mentions of Past Het, Modern Bucky Barnes, Shrunkyclunks, Sugardaddy Steve, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 04:36:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13674402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: “You want me to buy you another coffee.”He doesn't know if it's a question or not, but James freezes, turns his head slowly as though he's not sure he's heard what he thinks he's heard, and looks at Steve, eyes wide.“That an invitation?” he says, slowly, holding Steve's gaze.Steve puts his phone in the pocket of his pants.“Yes,” he says.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time Wednesday rolls around, James is oscillating between shooting Steve Rogers a 'wanna hook up?' text and quitting his job entirely.

** James.  **

James, thank God, has the next day off from work. He doesn't work Saturdays, which is an advantage of being halfway to a prodigy but still taking an office job. When it comes to tech. James can fix anything.

His mom's iPad, his friends' phone, his sister's laptop (over and over and over). He puts things back together – always has. He's great with tech.

What he's not great with, however, is this, right here.

When you're a highly-paid, very young employee in a very prestigious company, you can consider that maybe your luck has changed. And if you've managed to hook up with the kind of guy a good portion of the gay and straight communities in your town want to hook up with, you'd almost be sure of it.

But James has many problems, some of which are these: One, half the gay and straight communities in his town want to hook up with said guy because the guy is literally one of the most well-known people living in his town – and from his town – in the world. And James lives in _New York_ , for God's sake, that's no mean feat. Two, the guy is so well-known because he works for one of the most well-known organizations in the world. Third, James is working for the guy who bankrolls that organization.

Put simply, James got incredibly, magnificently, mind-bendingly laid by Steve “Cap” Rogers, and his boss, Tony Stark, will probably fire him for it.

But the biggest problem James has, even including the fact that he's banged the Avenger who's actually good friends with his boss, is that James has Captain America's number saved into his mobile phone and has only been away from him for fourteen hours.

How desperate is it to send Captain America a text less than a full day after...whatever Cap did to him?

It's at that point, when he thinks about the word 'Cap' in the context of Captain America, that he realizes he's not only going to hear Steve Rogers' gorgeous baritone saying _'My name is Steve,'_ every time someone mentions Captain America, but he's also probably going to picture an awful lot of strong jaw and thick muscle whenever Rogers doing a nice wholesome interview on the television, or filmed fighting whatever bad guys need to be fought, or, help him please, pointing from a poster on James' wall.

If James thought he could have managed another one, he'd've jerked off last night to that painted smiling face looking down on him, and the memory of Steven G Rogers saying things like _'do you kiss'_ and _'I'll be better than that,_ ' and _'I want you to get on all fours at the end of the bed.'_

It occurs to James that _he knows what Steve Rogers sounds like when he comes,_ and it's only the way his dick is still a little tender that's stopping him rubbing one out right here at ten in the morning on a weekend. 

His ass isn't sore, Rogers made sure of that. In fact, nothing's sore, per se. It's just...it's like new skin. He's extra aware of his own body in places, and most of those places are from the hips down and waist up. And between his legs.

So is it too clingy to call the hottest Avenger (sorry, Mr Stark, he thinks,) and say 'hey so last night was good and I'm free from like now or whenever is good for you'? Like, how does he even start a conversation like that? How does he _continue_ a conversation like that? He's terrified of saying something stupid. He's not going to use a winky emoji or be like 'want some of this' and send a dick pic but...

Actually, speaking of waiting, should he even call at all? Steve Rogers is a busy guy – maybe James can get google alerts about him. Definitely don't call if Steve Rogers is busy fighting off blob monsters or whatever, if he's at galas or press junkets or...

He thinks about writing this stuff down because call centers get scripts to read from. He can be like hi my  
name is James, can I interest you in my entertainment package. Okay, so now he's _really_ worried about saying something stupid.

Hello is too formal. Hi is a little too modern. Hey might be good, hey's a good start. Which is literally all he's got. What the hell is he doing being concerned about a greeting.

He's not going to call today – that's stupid. He'll call on...Wednesday. That's a nice happy medium – halfway through the working week. 

Which brings him to his next problem.

How is he gonna wait until Wednesday to call the guy he wants to be underneath right now?

***

Wednesday, as it turns out, is not the issue. His issues start way before then.

By Sunday night, he was okay enough to jerk off, and he did so on Sunday morning, again on Sunday afternoon, and again when he went to bed. 

By Monday, when he was walking past the desk in the lobby and studiously not pressing the stylized 'A' button in the elevator, he's feeling like serious shit about having slept with Captain America under Tony Stark's roof. 

It feels kind of...disloyal? Something like that. Not quite like cheating, but definitely something unpleasant.

Amy waves at him when he walks in, and he gives her a smile, and tries not to think about the number burning a hole in his phone as he asks Jarvis to log him in.

***

By the time Wednesday rolls around, James is oscillating between shooting Steve Rogers a 'wanna hook up?' text and quitting his job entirely.

Rogers wouldn't have provided him with a telephone number if he didn't want James to call, but then again it might...

Oh wow, it might not even be Rogers' number. James didn't see Rogers put the card in his pocket and yeah, okay, he could have done it at any time when James was sleeping but it's not like he hasn't had people write their numbers when he's out and about, and he was in a couple of different departments that day. He was also in the coffee place.

No, that's stupid, if someone had randomly given him their number, they'd've introduced themselves, right? Because that's the point – you smile and you flirt and you give someone your number. You make yourself known and leave a little bit of mystery.

Still, he's not sure. Rogers left plenty of mystery, and didn't kick him out by any means but also didn't-

James feels like an idiot. Of course he didn't invite James to spend the night. He let him nap in his bed, though, and how many people can say that. But James isn't a boyfriend or a lover or whatever, he was a hookup. A booty call. Just a booty, really. 

He tries not to snort into his coffee.

It might not be Rogers' personal number, though, which means James should call instead of texting something suggestive. Because if he says 'Hey, I'm free this afternoon for a little one on one,' and this is a monitored, screened number, Steve Rogers' secretary will raise an eyebrow and breeze right on by.

Which means he either has to talk like an appointment, or blow any cover Rogers was trying to keep by explaining who he is and why he's calling,

Of course, he could telephone and find out who's on the other end of the line, but an actual phone call is something he will avoid at all costs on any usual day, and more so in this case. Because what if it isn't Rogers and he has to explain who he is and why he's calling anyway?

Or, more terrifyingly, what if it _is_ Rogers? 

Then he has to form words in a reasonable enough order so as not to make a fool of himself.

He looks at the number sitting in his phone under CSR (he's not an idiot, if he loses the phone he doesn't want Commander Rogers' phone number up on the internet within five seconds – he doubts he'll get a second chance if he screws up that badly) and contemplates his next move.

Then he decides he'll make it tomorrow.

***

He does not.

Instead, he gets as far as drafting three separate messages, and then as far as standing with his thumb over the “call” button, but he doesn't press it. 

Steve Rogers was born in 1918 and became the First Avenger during World War Two, and then he was frozen for seventy years after saving basically the entire East coast of the United States at the cost of his own life, and then he was found and defrosted, and then he was made an Avenger, and then he became Commander Rogers. His list of military accolades is longer than James' entire body, his responsibilities are so numerous that James probably wouldn't be able to figure all of them out, and he's twice James' age.

James knows that Steve Rogers does certain things that people in the world are aware of, like fighting aliens and defeating robots and being present sometimes when President Ellis Jr is greeting foreign dignitaries, showing up from time to time in documentaries or on talk shows.

Steve Rogers does certain things that the people in New York are aware of, like supporting local businesses and working in local soup kitchens, opening programs at community colleges, and generally being a nice guy around a city that's always loved its home-grown hero.

Everybody who's anybody likes Steve Rogers and Steve Rogers is always, always busy. He's good and kind sexy as hell, but he's also serious and busy, so busy. James isn't going to get invited to galas and parties, isn't going to be roped into television appearances, isn't going to be backup on a mission or waiting with dinner ready in the evening.

He's not part of Steve Rogers world, and he comes to the conclusion that that's okay. It was a hell of a nice way to spend an afternoon, but James doesn't want to be a nuisance. Steve Rogers is on a completely different level, runs in completely different circles from James, is way more important than James will ever be, and probably wouldn't even remember James' name if they crossed paths again.

***

James spends the next few days drafting texts and not sending them, taking pictures and deleting them, setting google alerts and removing them, drafting more texts. He jerks off a lot, but what else is new? Even if the material playing behind his eyelids is fresh, he's still doing it alone on his bed.

He doesn't look at his poster and more – it feels weird to do so – but he does start to catch snippets of conversation he didn't know he was listening for, and certainly never listened for before. People in the tower are, obviously, Avengers affiliated, but there's so much more talk about Steve Rogers than he really thought of before.

He does his best to ignore it, of course. He won't get very far stopping to google the Commander every five minutes, but he does catch himself daydreaming once or twice.

By the time it's been two weeks since Commander Rogers invited him up, James is still drafting texts but doing very little about them. Rogers knows where he is if he really wants round two, otherwise James would probably just be interrupting something important.

By the time he gets to Friday, he's convinced.

***

Monday of the third week starts normally.

He goes in, logs in, sets up, gets started. And then there's Portugal. Very little gets shown on the television screens hung in the corners of the room, and the news stations say everyone will be fine, but, to begin with, James is doing his job in Stark tower when half the floor ups and disappears – a lot of the staff are medical, technical, and suddenly the job in Portugal that had the assemble alarm blaring around about the time James was starting to wish for his second coffee is a crisis in Portugal that needs the medical wing upstairs prepping and staff on hand for extra eyes through drones and satellites. 

James isn't that high up yet – might be one day – but he's heard it all happen enough to know when it goes from bad to worse.

When he finds out the reason was Commander Rogers, he doesn't even pretend he's not looking for news at his station. He sees things like _induced coma_ and _bed rest_ and then there's a the kind of noise from upstairs that even soundproofing can't get rid of – the jet grows larger in the air as it comes towards the tower, but the docking apparatus is already shaking the building. James watches the jet land in the distorted reflections of the surrounding skyscrapers – short of running to the window, pressing his face against the glass and doing his best to see directly upwards, the reflection is all he's got.

One or two people in white run past in the corridor outside, and James begins desperately trying to think of anything except the Commander.

It's two hours from Portugal to New York on the Quinjet, give or take, if the jet is traveling at its top speed of Mach two-point-five. Stark gets in before them, presumably to start getting everything ready, because he travels a lot faster than the jets. So James thinks about the math instead of the fact that the news reporter in Portugal might be talking about the whole thing but James can only hear the bits about Rogers. She confirms, somehow, that the jet's landed, and continues to give the same spiel about heroism, intervention and semi-serious injury. Captain America and Commander Rogers were working to free a civilian from a partially collapsed building when-

James shuts it out before he has to listen to it again.

For the next few days, until Commander Rogers appears – bruised but smiling – in a live broadcast from the tower on Thursday, that's then repeated with a 'Rogers alive and well' caption every fifteen minutes on 24 hour news, James scours videos and online articles and even the damned paper to try and figure out how Rogers is doing.

When Rogers Skypes the news, James doesn't bookmark the original broadcast on his phone, but only because he doesn't need to. It's at the top of his history, and he remembers exactly what it's called anyway.

It's harder than it should be to work knowing Commander Rogers is recuperating in the tower, even though he's not on duty this week. James doesn't go up. He doesn't have the clearance. Rogers probably wouldn't even want to see him – surrounded by colleagues as he tries to rest off a head injury and in waltzes his most recent bad decision? 

James isn't going to put himself up for that kind of ridicule or distaste or whatever kind of expressions the Avengers' would wear if they found out the Commander's one-night-stand call had come to see if he was awake.

***

He checks the news every morning, just in case, but eventually the news stops reporting on Rogers' progress. There's an aside on Sunday that James catches while he's eating dinner at his parents' place, and Becca turns it up because Rogers is one of the interests they share.

'And Avenger Commander Rogers has, we're told, made a full recovery from his injuries in Europe last week.' 

James gets on with installing her new keyboard and tries not to think much more about it.

***

Week four brings quiet again for a little while. No super-villains pop up out of nowhere – there's the usual one or two things that make local news. Spider-man's found a couple of underground gangsters in Queens, Ant Man solved a celebrity abduction (it was staged by the actor, go figure).

Ignoring the fact that Rogers exists, however, only works for so long.

It seems like wherever he goes, people are talking about Steve Rogers, looking at pictures of Steve Rogers, watching footage of Steve Rogers, designing armor for Steve Rogers, and even though he knows Steve Rogers' life is probably far too busy for a repeat performance of that very enjoyable Friday afternoon a month ago, James can't stop thinking about him.

Which is why it's a surprise when, four weeks to the day, as James is stepping into the elevator to go up a few floors and grab a coffee before he goes home for the weekend, with his phone – and another text he'll never send – in his hand, the tall, built dude in a gray jersey-fabric turtleneck and beautifully accentuating leather pants isn't instantly recognizable.

It's not until the doors are closing that Steve Rogers looks up to find out who's boarded his elevator, and then his expression does something strange that James can't decipher, and he straightens up, shoulders back, spine stiff.

“James,” he says.

James wonders if Tony Stark's elevators include an eject button.

 

** Steve **

Steve wakes up on Saturday at four in the morning and, for the first time in a good couple of months, he rolls over and goes back to sleep.

When he wakes up at six from a very enjoyable sex dream, he jerks off before he takes a shower, the image of James writhing around on the sheets bright and loud in his memories. He jerks off again in the shower because why not and, another first in months, goes out to run with a smile on his face and no particular aim or destination in mind, instead of his usual frown and the intention to run off some frustration.

He takes East 42nd to get to Madison avenue, and then follows it North until East 59th. After that, he hangs a left and runs twice around the perimeter of Central park before he comes back. It's fifteen miles, but he takes it slow. 

Supersoldier slow – it takes him about forty-five minutes to do the full fifteen miles – before he heads back for breakfast. He grabs coffee from his favorite coffee place, jerks off again when he showers after getting back, and that at least leaves him feeling a little less like he's got too much energy and a little more like he's eaten a good meal.

Speaking of eating a good meal, he has a look at the various options open to him and decides on an obscene amount of carbs and red meat because why not? And then donuts. He ran fifteen miles, for god's sake.

It sets him up for the day, actually, so by the time he's heading back down to the garage, it's 10am and he's already done most of the things he had planned. He's not on the duty roster this week, so it'll be a week of hanging around the tower and reading and drawing unless something comes up.

He's given James his number, and expects a call in a couple of days. James certainly seemed enthusiastic enough, and he's so...Steve likes being able to have a conversation with the guy. He's been on dates with one or two James' age (or, slightly older, actually) and they were frustratingly vapid. Interested in him, sure, but not for his communications skills.

But James, well, James comes pre-Stark-approved, is totally vetted, and is smart enough to work for Stark Industries on one of their top-tier R&D levels. This is not a guy who, like, wants to know his favorite color or something haha.

This is an engineer on Tony Stark's staff, who also happens to be young, and very attractive.

He makes sure his phone's in his pocket before he sets off for Brooklyn to pick up a couple of things from his place.

James lives in Brooklyn. 

Maybe Steve'll run into him.

***

Steve doesn't.

It's....disappointing, actually, but he knows whereabouts James lives. He doesn't know the exact building but he knows the street, and that it's one of about four big, brick buildings. James lives in Brooklyn. The only other person Steve knows who can afford to live in Brooklyn is himself, and he's an Avenger. His wage is...

He doesn't like how high it is, actually, but he pays his rent with his back-pay, so it's not as awful as it could be.

He compensates for his ridiculous Avengers pay by putting it elsewhere, not that the general public needs to worry about it. It helps others more than it'd help Steve, so he's happy to help others with it and, if there's anything he's seriously in need of, Tony's usually somehow figured out what it is before he realizes anyway. 

By Sunday evening, he's only checking his phone once or twice. By Monday evening, he's back in his usual routine and he's got a school thing over in Queens about a new program they're running tomorrow. Supplemental and additional education for those who want it – there are some stunningly bright kids around these days, the advancements in modern tech only fueling the reach of their scope and the depth of their knowledge. Steve remembers being able to afford the Eagle sometimes and having to wait on national news as though it were reading a serialized crime novel. 

Now, children in Brooklyn can find out what's happening on the other side of the world, at any time of day, at the click of a button. Sam can track his sister's plane from takeoff to landing. At any time of the day or night, Steve can tell anyone who asks exactly where the International Space Station is, and he knows how it sounds if he says it, especially because he loves his new ten inch tablet even if he doesn't understand the need for one in addition to a StarkPhone. He sounds like an old man if he even thinks the words 'back in my day,' but these kids, they've got access to everything except the money to innovate, able to see crises from continents away and figure out how to solve a problem nobody imagined could be solved purely by running with an idea, and learning how to make it real by using the same tool that spurred them on in the first place.

Steve would be hard pressed, medical innovations aside, to think of any greater invention than the internet.

***

On Tuesday, after the press have finished taking photographs and asking questions, and after Steve had shaken hands with principals and vice principals and low-down politicians, (one of whom did all the work and got a smile, two of whom did not and got strained grimaces and no mention in Steve's interviews. He's not an idiot,) he takes his motorcycle home, bike helmet included.

After that online Moms 4 Safety campaign about him not wearing a helmet, Stark made him one that connected to Steve's 'personal synchronized network,' because of course he had. 

That had been a different time, of course, years ago now, before he and Sam had headed up the 'Helping Hands First' ads with Tony's graciously-given funds, before Steve had learned to speak with a qualified professional about certain things, and before he'd come to realize that maybe he wasn't foregoing a helmet because he thought himself invincible but because he knew himself not to be. 

“All right Bambi,” he says as he comes to a stop at a red, and the two rising pings in his ear tell him the program has registered his voice. “Set a reminder; call Marcia next Friday.”

He owes a lot to that particularly angry mom – it's also been too long since he's seen her. 

_“Reminder set to call Marcia next Friday,”_ it answers. _”Is there any thing else I can get you Steve.”_

“Thank you, Bambi,” Steve says, and the descending tones tell him it has deactivated again.

He'd call her right now, except that he's already got plans, and there are only so many plans he can take. 

When he pulls into the tower, he checks his phone. There are already pictures up on the program's social media page, alongside a fifteen second video of Steve cutting the ribbon, shaking some hands, blinking in camera flashes, and someone saying _oh my god it's Captain America_ ,' and a bunch of congratulatory tweets.

“All right, Bambi, email Clint Barton,” he says.

 _“Emailing Clint Barton,_ ” it answers. _”What's the message.”_

“Hey, Asshole, wanna come over for pizza and the ball game?”

_“Emailing Clint Barton – Hey I so want to come over for pizza in a board game. Would you like to send the email?”_

“You know what, Bambi?” he mutters, swiping out of the app. “I think I'll handle it myself.”

***

On Wednesday, he's starting to wonder if James intends to call at all. He hasn't had any indication that James has tried to contact him – it's not even as though James couldn't leave a message without a number anyway. Jarvis runs the tower.

By Thursday, he knows James isn't going to call, and he knows why. His ex used to tell him he was too earnest, Nat always said she only showed up for the type of good time nobody else knew how to show her. Steve's sense of fun isn't the same as other people's sense of fun, Steve's rough isn't the same as other peoples' rough, and he pushes the disappointment of it down, away. 

He warned the kid, wasn't expecting a relationship anyway. Plus, it's not the first time things haven't worked out, and it was a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon. In the grand scheme of things, and Steve sees an awful lot of the grand scheme of things, this is...

He scrubs his hand over his face, tosses the phone onto the bed – his nicely, neatly made, very empty bed in Brooklyn – and leaves it there while he goes to make his usual meal-for-one.

***

Sam comes up in time for the weekend, because he's on duty with Steve, so he and Steve go out for a coffee on Friday morning, before the shift change. He mentions meeting up with Marcia, and Sam says he'll check his schedule, so Steve doesn't call her that day after all. He'll call once Sam knows, and then they can all meet up together. Sam tells him about the new program they've got going at the VA and asks if he'd like to come and show up to maybe pull in a little more attention. Steve snorts into his coffee.

“They don't want me there, I've got someone I talk to every two weeks. I'm not dysfunctional enough any more.”

“Uh, no?” Sam says. “I'm pretty sure going for a fifteen mile run every morning in the actual city of New York constitutes an underlying issue.”

Steve actually laughs this time, and he's glad he left the tower. Sometimes it's nice to grab a grab a beer at a local bar, and sometimes it's nice to go for coffee with one of his oldest friends.

“Man, how you been?” he says eventually, and Steve is the same as he ever is.

He's alive and healthy and grateful for his home and the people he cares about. He's insanely lucky.

“Eh, same old, same old,” he says. “So how's that better half a'yours?”

He knows Sam isn't fooled but Sam, the saint that he always has been, lets him get away with it anyway.

***

There's a small fire in a warehouse in Red Hook on Monday, ANR on the emergency service frequencies, Jarvis tells them. Avengers may be Not-Required but Steve wants to go and see anyway. Something's wrong in his neighborhood, dammit.

Sam convinces him not to go.

Steve wonders if James knows anyone in Red Hook. The fire is so small, it's out in twenty minutes, and the warehouse was derelict anyway.

There's a second small fire on the Wednesday, but it's also designated ANR, and they have get the kid in custody, too.

“How's about that?” Clint says. “They caught the kid.”

Steve narrows his eyes.

“You doubtin' my boys in blue, Barton?” he says, but they both know he's kidding.

The news calls the kid a serial arsonist – Steve isn't sure it counts as serial if there are only two instances – but the kid's in custody down at the 97th, so what does it matter? Sam says his Uncle – a Captain a couple of precincts over – seemed surprised.

“He don't have much faith in the 97th either?” Steve asks.

“Eh, he's hard to read,” Sam answers.

Friday brings the end of Steve's week on, and he couldn't have been more bored. He's eaten more and read more in the week than he probably ever has while on Duty. Still, that's the benefit of not being Captain America any more. 

Sam rings him to remind him from Washington on Saturday. From the air. In the middle of chasing down a car.

Steve wishes him luck and hears Sam cuss him out good-naturedly as he hangs up.

***

By the time he's starting the third week since his most enjoyable Friday evening in recent memory, Steve's not even supposed to be on duty. His weeks end Friday evenings on the weeks that he's on. But, on the Monday, they all get called in. This is different. This one, apparently, will take all of them. They're called out to Portugal to what was a suspected sabotage but turns out simply to be a parts failure and subsequent gas explosion. A lot of people need digging out, and he they do fairly well but, as luck would have it, Steve takes a nasty hit to the head and shoulder. He'll be fine, but it was bad.

They high-tail it back to New York as soon as they can – not that Steve knows, being unconscious by this point – and he spends the rest of the day out completely, then the next day semi-conscious in the tower's medical facility. He's told that he won't be going home this week – he's wanted where Jarvis can keep an eye on him, reading. Watching things that Jarvis suggests. Trying not to dwell on having nobody to talk to.

He only stays because Wanda asks him nicely. She's still like a little sister, and he's never been able to say no to that face. 

So, on the Wednesday of his week off, he Skypes a lady called Melissa, at Pepper's suggestion, at one of the news stations, so that they can broadcast his grainy, bruised face on the news (with a five second delay because the news don't want to make the same mistake twice) so that he can tell them he appreciates the nation's concern (which he does now he's awake) but he's fine, and almost completely healed, and they'll keep him under observation just in case (which they will). He also says he has plenty to do to keep him busy, which is a lie, but it doesn't matter really.

His intention is to find something to draw or dig out a deck of cards but, in reality, he's still not a hundred percent, and the serum has always done its best work while he's slept. The serum also doesn't give him much choice about it.

And so he's just about able to stay awake for a whole day by the time Thursday arrives, barring a couple of surprise naps, which means he's just about healed by the time he's on duty again come Friday evening.

Some week off that was.

***

The last week of the month is uneventful.

The whole week. 

Nobody gets into any problems the local PD can't solve. 

There are a couple of mentions of unrest over in South Asia early in the week, but the Avengers are staying well out of it, as are the U.S. Government. It's one of those things that would cause a problem to intervene in, and Steve is glad they're not looking at the Avengers to be the solution to other peoples' political issues.

That kind of thing never ends well for anyone.

He's still falling into naps now and again – Thor wakes him when he falls asleep on the bench. One minute Peter's gone to grab them both a water, spotting him in the middle of his bench press reps, and the next Peter's waking him up with a concerned look on his face.

Steve's fine, but his blips, as Tony calls them, are irritating as hell. Still, they're not nearly as terrifying now as they were the first time a head injury caused them. A week and a half after he'd been slurring his speech so hard he sounded high, Steve had been back to normal and then suddenly, _blip_ half a debriefing missed.

It wouldn't happen if he slept all the way from the injury to full recovery, but he'd never had time for that. There was always something to be done, and he always healed eventually anyway. 

So aside from news stories and surprise naps, there's an issue in Russia on Thursday that looks like it might escalate, but they end up halfway to the Quinjet when word comes through that the situation has calmed into negotiations and, though they spend the rest of the night waiting just in case, the negotiations go well.

Now, Steve isn't about to say he wishes things had gone terribly. There's nothing he likes better than to hear a situation's resolved itself. But that does leave him in an empty suite, hopped up on pre-fight tension with no actual fight to take it out on, missing a night's sleep and still raring to go.

It's six in the morning and he can either go running or he can do something heavier, work a little harder and maybe get past some of the adrenaline rush. The gym is three floors down, so he goes almost as soon as confirmation of the situation comes through, pausing only to change his clothes. He wraps his hands and uses the bag, runs until he's sick of running on the treadmill, does press ups with both hands, one hand, claps between them.

When he gets back up to his suite, Jarvis lets him know everyone's on the common floor. He thinks about ducking out, but figures it might be nice.

So, instead of ducking out he showers, grabs his sketchbook and his tablet, takes himself downstairs and sits amongst his friends as morning turns to afternoon. It's nice. He finishes the book he was halfway through, checks some of the messages that have been left for him, and then he sketches everyone. He hasn't done it in a while – face by face, pose by pose. Natasha and Wanda figure it out and try to get him to show them. It's good-natured and they know he will if he wants to, he knows they'll stop if he asks them. But it's a game they play, and he smiles when Wanda starts to poke at him.

“Are you sure?” she says, and Steve shrugs, pressing his sketchbook to his chest. 

“Serum,” he says. “I haven't been ticklish since nineteen forty-three, sorry.”

She wiggles her fingers against his ribs anyway, but to no avail. When he's done, they gather around him – it's something they've learned by now. Peter rubs his hand over his mouth to half hide his face when he sees Steve's rendering of him, shakes his head.

“Mind if I take a picture?” he says.

“You can take the page if you want,” Steve answers, moving to grab the paper by the spine, ready to tear it out for him.

Suddenly, everyone's clamoring to stop him, hands reaching out, harsh breaths drawn inward in surprise.

“No!” Peter says, and Steve pauses, surprised. “No, please, I-I just want a photo.”

He takes out his StarkPhone and snaps a picture, and everybody else follows suit with their own respective phones for their own respective sketches.

“Y'oughta keep 'em together,” Clint says. “Like a collection.”

“Well I'll bear that in mind when I put them up in the MoMA,” Steve says and, gradually, they order food, queue up a movie, sit close and wind down.

It's nice. They don't do it often any more, they're all older now, of course. But, though their hair may be graying and there may be a few more lines at the corners of their eyes, Clint's shoulder is still solid against Steve's, Natasha's feet still warm under his thighs. They're still the same, better for being still together.

It's not so bad, he thinks.

They wake him at three in the afternoon to tell him he needs to rest. They're also waking Clint and Wanda when he opens his bleary eyes. His body's mostly recuperated from Portugal, but they were up all night, he's not eaten properly, and somebody mentions Scott and Hope will be in shortly anyway for Tony's shift. 

Then, thank goodness, Carol will be back on Tuesday. It'll be good to have Carol back, actually – put them back on a three week rotation instead of two, not that she didn't deserve a vacation.

He swipes his hand over his eyes and starts to gather up his things just as Wanda stretches, and Clint yawns loudly without covering his mouth. Steve smiles – they never change and he's glad for it. It being the end of the week, he's about ready to go home to his place in Brooklyn, having seen very little of it over the past three weeks given the week spent under observation. 

He heads back to his suite first, though, to change out of the uniform and brush his teeth, make sure his usual bag is packed. If he were the type to forget things, he'd only be half an hour away from the tower most of the time anyway. He checks the kitchen to make sure that anything that can be frozen goes in the freezer, and that anything that will expire is consumed (sometimes people call _Clint_ a human garbage can. That's because they've never seen what happens when Steve Rogers needs to clear out a refrigerator). 

He goes around and unplugs appliances as he goes, because he's sure Jarvis would notice a problem before anything even happened if the cables were thinking about catching fire, but he likes to be better safe than sorry and, by the time he's done, it's getting on for five, which means he'll be heading home in the rush hour traffic.

It's less than ideal, but he's on his bike and he knows the route well. His leather jacket is down with the bike, and he checks the small bag he keeps for his wallet, tablet and sketchbook. The bag'll go in the bike's storage compartment, and he's got a different toothbrush at home and toiletries in both places, so he's got all he needs.

He gets into the elevator and goes down to the garage, flipping through emails on his phone. He crosses the underground lot to his bike, stows the bag and-

“Dammit,” he mutters.

Of course. Keys.

The bike is coded and doesn't need them – but his place in Brooklyn? That needs keys. He's lucky - he automatically checks where the ignition would be on a regular bike. It's been years and he still does it. But glancing at the ignition is what made him remember. 

Good job or he'd've been all the way to his front door before he remembered, probably. And he could break in but he'd rather not.

He sighs and heads back upstairs, getting back onto the elevator. He knows he's got a couple of things on this week so he starts to go over his upcoming schedule as the elevator hums into motion. One of his things is recording of an appearance on Sesame Street, which he's not been on for five years or so – one of the new puppets is apparently anxious and wants to know about what superheroes do to not be scared. (The answer, of course, is that superheroes are scared too but they have good friends and people who care about them, and they know that you can only succeed if you try). He can run the lines backwards by now but the guys know him, and they'll throw in some ad-libs, probably a take where he corpses – it's impossible not to corpse sometimes. Last time they went one worse – when Steve couldn't breathe for laughing, the puppet turned to camera as if to say 'can you believe this?' and Steve had needed to take five minutes to calm down.

Later in the week, after Sesame Street, he's got some kind of afternoon thing – it's not a lunch but it's also not a dinner – with a couple of generals who are a little antsy about Tony's new projects. They're sending Steve because he's more likely to show up, not because he's less likely to start a fight but, eh, you win some, you lose some.

He doesn't look up when the doors open, not immediately. He finishes saving a small alteration he's making to Thursday, and then looks up as the doors close to greet whomever's joined him on the elevator because, let's be honest, at five on a Friday, the only other people going up are probably Avengers.

Except he's wrong. He straightens up automatically, feels himself freeze up.

Young and lean and dark-haired and beautiful in thick-rimmed glasses, a striped sweater and skinny jeans, with a beanie perched precariously on the back of his head and a long chain around his neck that reaches all the way down to the pendant swinging at his stomach, is...

“James,” he says.

The kid looks startled, for sure, and something else that Steve can't discern. It might be guilt or it might just be a 'hell no' but the kid still makes no move to get back out of the elevator. 

The doors close behind the kid and he stands there gaping like a fish, and that pretty much confirms it for Steve. James had no intention of ever seeing him again, did he?

For a long few moments more, James just stares right at him, as though he's dropped into an alternate dimension or something, and then Steve feels his brow crease. Staring is something he's had a lot of and he's not sure what he's meant to discern from the fact that James is doing it now. 

“What floor?” he says, as politely as he can manage.

“Oh shit,” James mutters, and he spins around, presses the button.

The elevator begins to move and Steve wants to know what he did wrong. He wants to know if he was too rough or too earnest or too forthright or too commandeering. He wants to know why James didn't have the decency to tell him he wasn't interested, why James seemed so happy when he left if he had no intention of-

But Steve is also aware that James never asked for contact details. James never mentioned a second meeting. James knows where to find him, even, and didn't make any attempt to leave a message during the past three weeks – not even after Portugal.

James clears his throat awkwardly, looks down at his boots. Steve tries to go back to what he was doing on his phone, but it's for show. James is a very, very handsome young man and all Steve can think of is how strong his hands were on Steve's waist, his thighs, the backs of his shoulders, how nice it was to have somebody warm to move with.

“So, I,” James says, and then his throat clicks. “Glad Portugal- Glad you're-” There's a moment of silence. “Fuck,” James mutters and, despite himself, Steve smiles.

He can feel for himself that the smile's a little tired, but at least the kid's trying to be nice. Maybe he really just didn't expect anything more than the one-time thing. Steve can live with that.

“Thanks,” he says. “Really wasn't as bad as they made it seem.”

“Induced coma,” James answers, still not looking at him.

Steve's memory is all but photographic, and he doesn't want to talk about Portugal, or the sensation of the world coming down on his head and the sudden rise of adrenaline even as unconsciousness swallowed him whole, so instead he says,

“Nice pendant. Very Art Deco.”

“Thanks,” James says. “People don't usually recognize-” 

He stops himself again.

“You were born in nineteen-eighteen, and I'm an idiot.”

Steve chuckles.

“Yeah, it's,” James says. “I love it. Love all of that, Deco, Nouveau – Mackintosh, Lalique, Wright...I mean, I didn't get this, I- My ex...uh, bought this for me, but I...uh. Thanks.”

It sets something off in Steve's brain. He's heading home for a long couple weeks of nothing, by himself, aside from a couple of the usual appearances, a couple of the usual paperwork hand-ins. He's going to have the whole apartment to himself, as usual, and he's going to have the whole bed to himself too. 

And maybe, he thinks, maybe he can make history repeat itself, even if it's just for one night, even if the kid wants to go home when they're done.

_Buy me a coffee and I'll follow you anywhere._

“You want me to buy you another coffee.”

He doesn't know if it's a question or not, but James freezes, turns his head slowly as though he's not sure he's heard what he thinks he's heard, and looks at Steve, eyes wide. Then his gaze _absolutely_ drops to Steve's leather trousers before flicking back up.

“That an invitation?” he says, slowly, holding Steve's gaze.

Steve puts his phone in the pocket of his leather pants.

“Yes,” he says.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's swiftly remembering how far from ideal it is to get an erection while wearing leather pants designed to protect you from road rash at high speed.

Steve tries not to fidget while the elevator moves. He wants, right now, to have everything all at once. His libido is terrible, a glutton in a way that Steve is sometimes still surprised by, and so he's semi-used to having desire intrude on his thoughts a lot. 

It doesn't happen during battles – he's in a different mindset, nothing gets in the way of a mission. Not even injury, sometimes.

But any other time – meetings, press conferences, photo ops, talk-show interviews, taking out the trash, making himself a meal, sitting around on duty and waiting for the Assemble alarm – you name it, and Steve's mind will wander toward the sexual during it.

It doesn't take anything to set him off, either. He can be right on track, considering the phrasing of a certain report or walking to the recyclables or – literally anything. And then suddenly he's thinking of hands in his hair or a mouth on his own or or the sweet, smooth brush of warm dry skin against warm dry skin.

He figured a long time ago that he either needed to get laid more or just plain live with it. The latter had presented itself as the solution by default, and seeing to himself took the edge off. But waking the proverbial bear from hibernation is always a problem, always brings with it a surprising influx of things his body wants. 

It's worse this time – he knows exactly what James' body is like, but hasn't seen hide nor hair of it for a month. If he thought he was desperate before, it's nothing compared to now. He's swiftly remembering how far from ideal it is to get an erection while wearing leather pants designed to protect you from road rash at high speed.

There is not, by any means, a lot of give.

It's not helped by the fact that James is slightly in front of him and has a very nice ass beneath his very tight jeans, which Steve does not palm, the same way he does not grab James around the waist and haul him back so he's flush to Steve's body, ass in the cradle of Steve's hips, to shove the front of James' shirt up so he's exposed, unbuttoning those jeans to-

“Sure about this?” he says, because of course he'll stop if James asks, but he'd really rather not stop.

James doesn't look convinced.

“Are you?” he says, trying to be cocky about it, and Steve raises an eyebrow.

James goes a little pink over the bridge of his nose, wets his lips and then laughs softly, looks down. 

With a direct route upstairs, it doesn't take any time at all to reach his floor, but it still feels like it takes too long and, when they get inside, Steve shuts the door behind them and looms, because he knows how effective it is. James turns around to look at him and finds that he's got to look _up_ , and Steve looks down at him, walks forward until they're chest to chest.

“Prescription or aesthetic?” he says, and James frowns and then,

“Oh! No, they're...” he takes the glasses off, throws them at the armchair to prove his point where they bounce a bit.

“Good,” Steve says, and he grabs the beanie off the back off James' head to discover an obnoxious man-bun. 

He loves it.

“Go sit down,” Steve says, points to the couch with one hand as he shoves the beanie against James' stomach with the other. “Middle of the couch.”

As soon as James takes it, he tilts James' head up with a couple of fingers under his chin and kisses him, slow and deep and hot. He puts everything into it and feels something unwind in his chest, and is still tilting James' face up when they part.

“I'm gonna go put on something with a little more give,” he says, and there's no doubting what he means, “that doesn't squeak when I walk.”

James laughs a little, looks down, and Steve walks off to change out of his leather pants.

“You keeping the turtleneck on?” James says, and Steve doesn't even turn around to answer.

“I am now, so long as that striped thing is off by the time I get back.”

He hears James start on it before he's even left the room.

~

James gets the sweater over his head and flings it aside, leaving his pendant on. Then he thinks for a second about how this isn't his place, and how it is Commander Rogers' place, so he picks the sweater back up and puts it on the armchair with his glasses, sets the beanie on top, because this isn't his bedroom, it's Commander Rogers' living room. He thinks about leaving his boots on – hasn't been told to take them off – but it's pale furniture and pale carpet and James doesn't know what the plan is. 

He doesn't want to be halfway through something exciting only to have to stop to take off his boots.

He puts them by the door and takes his socks off too (because, seriously, of all days to be wearing mismatched socks) and shoves them into the boots. Then he hurries back to sit in the middle of the couch.

It doesn't take Rogers long to come back, and he's wearing loose blue jeans, light like the color of his eyes. James isn't sure, but he also doesn't look to be wearing much under them, and he realizes that he's only noticed because he's staring at Rogers' dick through them. When he flicks his gaze up, Rogers is still coming towards him like some kind of fantasy, long legs straight, shoulders back, eyes dark and glittering, but the twist to his lips says he noticed where James's gaze was focused.

“I forgot how good you are with instructions,” he says, gaze raking down James' body, and James feels every bit as exposed as he is, plus a whole lot more.

He can feel his cock starting to swell and wets his lips, watches Rogers' gaze flick up to follow the movement. 

“Any questions?” Rogers asks, yanking small foil packets out of his jeans pockets and depositing them on the table.

James has one, immediately - feels like an idiot for how fast it occurs to him, but Rogers must notice something about his demeanor.

“Go on,” he says. “Takes two to tango, what's the problem?”

“Are,” James says. “Portugal was...I mean, I saw it on the news.”

The Commander's face does something unusual then, not an eyeroll or a heated look or any of the things James is used to seeing. It's something else, something subtler.

“Jarvis,” he says, and his voice is different too – softer, “how are my vitals, please, sexual arousal notwithstanding?”

James feels his face get just a touch warmer, a secret kind of pride welling up in his chest. He knows the Commander finds him attractive – that's kind of the whole point – but hearing it casually mentioned like that almost overrides his understanding of the initial command.

_“Signs of sexual arousal notwithstanding, your vital statistics read as normal for your personal baseline. No remaining cerebral or aural damage is present insofar as my scans indicate. Recovery from the injuries you sustained during the events in Portugal appears to be mostly complete, and physical exertion is no longer prohibited by medical advisors._

“Thanks,” the Commander answers, staring straight at James.

 _“You are most welcome, Sir,”_ Jarvis answers.

“Anything else, or should we get started?” the Commander asks. 

James wets his lips.

“First one's for you?” he says.

Rogers chuckles, soft and dark and smooth, crosses the rest of the way to James with no more preamble, and towers over him for a moment. A few moments after that, he leans right down, hand on the back of the couch right next to James' head, and kisses him, uses his other hand to squeeze James' dick through his pants.

James groans, can't help it, but doesn't get time to enjoy it really. By the time he's registering it, Rogers has moved to grab James by the waistband of his jeans, hauling him down the cushions so that his ass is off the couch.

Rogers is a supersoldier, so it takes him almost literally no effort, and then he's kissing James' neck, his chest, leaning over him like he's got James right where he wants him.

“We'll see,” he says, and it takes James a couple of second to remember what he's saying, what question he's answering. 

And then Rogers is unbuttoning James' fly, curling thick fingers around the waistband of his jeans and underwear both, and pulling. He's one hell of a lot stronger than James is, and so James' hips lift clear off the couch cushions when Rogers gets all the fabric down over his ass. He'd be embarrassed about the way his cock springs free, about the way his legs flail and the way he has to grab onto the couch cushions to keep from being pulled all the way onto the floor, but he doesn't get the chance.

Just as James is about to ask where Rogers wants him, just as he's hoping Rogers will tell him how to move or where to stand, Rogers drops onto his knees, slings James' legs over his shoulders and gets right into sucking him off.

James doesn't even have time to stop the noise he makes, to dampen the reaction he gives. He cries out because he can't help it, the sudden knife-edge of pleasure lancing up into his stomach. His back arches and his legs pull inwards, but Rogers has already seen to that – his head is between James' legs, so James isn't going anywhere.

“God, oh my _God_ ,” James hears himself say, and then he's grabbing at the cushions, the back of the couch, his legs, fisting both hands in his hair.

Rogers pulls off with a lewd pop, jacks him once, twice with one enormous hand, and looks up at him.

“You're allowed to touch me,” he says, and then gets right back to it.

James is going to die. 

He doesn't move for the first few seconds, not really catching up on what Rogers has said until then, and then he's barely able to do it, halfway to mortified that the Commander's the one on his knees. What if James hurts him, the one remaining part of his mind asks, what if James chokes him, or pulls his hair too hard or-

James' rational questions are kind of washed a way in a warm tide of pleasure that blooms through his blood as Rogers sucks harder, and he feels his mouth drop open, feels soft strands beneath his fingers before he knows what he's doing with his hands and then Rogers has his arms around James' thighs to keep him still and James can't even get away for a break.

He gasps for air and moans in a way that's maybe just a little bit pitiful, and Rogers just keeps right on going while James fights his own body while it tries to figure out what the hell is going on.

Rogers has such a nice place and he's so well known and he's so _hot_ and his lips are so red and they fit so nicely, so sweetly, around James' dick-

“Ohhh, my God,” he says, breath hitching,.

Rogers pulls back again, keeps one huge, warm, thick-fingered, tight-fisted hand on James and reaches back to the coffee table with other, _licks his lips_ as he picks something up and drops it on James' stomach, and then sits back on his haunches, watching James as he keeps his hand going.

“Uuh?” James manages, half kind of pushing against the couch cushions, and Rogers' mouth twitches at the corner, he tightens his grip.

“Put it on,” Rogers says, without breaking eye contact, and James isn't really sure if his fingers will work but there's no saying no to a voice like that.

“Yessir,” he says, isn't really aware of saying it until Rogers snorts, but he manages to get the wrapper open, oh right, condom, and Rogers lets go for precisely the amount of time it takes for James to get the condom on.

And then Rogers is leaning over him again and James is not going to last very long before he comes.

“Oh, please,” he says, and Rogers is probably making some noise, James hopes he is, but James' noises are louder, and his own spine appears to be trying to bury his head in the couch cushions, and Rogers is holding onto him with those huge hands and isn't letting up and isn't letting up and, “I'm gonna come,” James says, all in a rush of breath.

“Kinda the point,” Rogers tells the head of James' dick, and then he swallows him whole and sucks so hard that James totally doesn't dry sob, and then there's a split second of absolute tranquillity like the eye of a storm, or the edge of the universe, and then every nerve he's got prickles into bright, white light, and he can't breathe as his muscles convulse and spasm and throw him about.

Rogers keeps his grip on him, doesn't let go, doesn't let up, and James is pulling Rogers' hair with his fingers, squeezing Rogers' head with his legs, his body pushing him further and pulling him back in equal measure.

James can only do this for so long, can only sustain this sort of tension for a certain length of time – his stomach muscles contract and contract, his legs tighten and tighten, his face screws up and he's going to ache in so many places tomorrow-

“Stop,” he gasps “ _stop!_ ” but Rogers was already stopping after the first time.

He pulls off slowly, eases his grip on James' body enough that James can ease his own grip on Rogers, and then he realizes how the creases of his fingers sting, how the palms of his hands itch and the backs of his thighs throb. All of him was holding on so tightly...

“Sorry,” he says, and Rogers looks at him, raises one perfect, sardonic eyebrow and it's like James could count all the little hairs there if he wanted, could reach out and scratch his fingernails over Rogers' stubble if he felt like it, could pick out the individual grays at Rogers' temples and in the swoop over his forehead, could smooth down the fist-sized tufts that stick up on the back of his skull from where James was holding on.

He's got pores and hairs and little creases around his eyes, James can see his eyelashes and his freckles and the shine on his teeth as he runs his tongue over them.

“Don't apologize,” Rogers says. 

“God, you're gorgeous,” James answers, and Rogers does something surprising then – his whole face softens into a huge, broad, bright smile that's as soft as it is beautiful, and he shakes his head, closes his eyes. “Wow, God,” James is vaguely aware of saying.

His chest is heaving hard enough that it's drawing his attention, and he starts trying to get his breathing back under control, licking his lips to wet them where breathing so hard through his mouth has dried them out.

Rogers sort of manoeuvres James until he's back on the couch properly, removes his condom and cleans him up with like a tissue or something, James doesn't even see it. He must knot and dispose of the condom too but James isn't aware enough to follow that. And then Rogers rocks back onto his knees, stroking James' skin while James comes down off his high. James just tries to make his body stop doing all the things he's not controlling, like that weird twitch in his right thigh.

Rogers sees it and digs his thumb in and it feels so good but James is halfway to mortified – Rogers is still fully dressed, pretty much as covered as he can be without a mask and gloves, and here James is with not a stitch on, with the guy staring at him.

He kind of figured the starstruck thing would go away but no, there it is. Wow.

“Let me know when you feel like moving,” Rogers tells him, massaging James' inner thigh as though he does this all the time, “and we can get started.”

***

They've almost finished the Chinese between them by about nine-thirty, Steve having had nothing in the refrigerator to actually cook, when Eddie arrives with the stack of pizzas Steve's ordered from Lombardi's.

He sets them down on the coffee table,which is serving as a dining table for the time being because they never did get as far as the bedroom together. James spent a good long time not moving at all, and Steve gave him the turtleneck to regulate his body temperature as he cooled down, and now they're eating on the floor with the coffee table between them.

It's a good idea for necessity, too – it means James can sit in whichever way is currently comfortable. 

Once the pizzas are down, Steve sits back down on his side of the table and reaches out again, sliding his fingers over James' foot to circle them around James' ankle. James doesn't flinch – Steve's hand was there until the pizzas arrived and it's no difference to either of them that he should put it back.

“Didn't you order six?” James asks, and Steve nods around a mouthful of lo mein.

“One was for Eddie,” he says, and James nods – Steve thinks it's cute he checked.

“Eddie Romaine?” James says. “I know that guy, on security?”

“Mm-hmm,” Steve answers, putting down his chopsticks to grab a napkin, dabbing at his mouth before he tightens the belt of his bathrobe. “He's on the night-shift tonight.”

Which, considering Jarvis runs the building, is a pretty boring job. Still though, pizza makes it better, and Eddie's getting paid to play solitaire.

“Can I start on the pizza?” James says, and Steve frowns as he nods.

“I bought it to be eaten, kid,” he says once he's swallowed his mouthful. “There's two meat, two white and one vegetable.”

James shoves the sleeve of Steve's turtleneck up his arm, grabs a box and opens it. The shirt is too big on him but that's part of what's nice about it – he looks good in it, too, especially given that Steve gets a glimpse of his legs every time he shifts. James has nice legs, and Steve rubs his thumb over James' ankle. 

James is approaching his limit, already full of Chinese food. Steve has to eat as much as about three people to get enough calories to maintain himself, but James looks to be nearly done. Which means he's trying the pie for flavor, which Steve can't fault a bit. 

James reaches for a slice and picks it up, which burns his fingers, and Steve hides a smile when it doesn't stop him. He burns his mouth too.

“That's so good,” he says around a mouthful of too-hot Italian meat and cheese, once he's done fanning his face, “shame there's no pineapple.”

Steve smiles, pushes himself up to stand, and stoops to kiss James as he passes. He can, at least, help with that.

“I have a can,” he says by way of explanation, and James turns his head and watches.

When Steve looks back from the kitchen, James looks very small curled up against Steve's huge coffee table, in Steve's huge apartment, in Steve's huge turtleneck, but he's smiling like Steve's just offered him the moon.

Steve smiles back, finds and opens the can of pineapple, and takes it in a bowl back to the table. James grins as he fishes a few pieces out for his slice as Steve sits back down.

“ _Now_ it's perfect,” James says, and Steve raises an eyebrow as he traces a pale blue vein on James' ankle, before he tugs the box towards himself to grab a slice of his own.

“Don't let John hear you say that,” he says. 

“Oh my God,” James answers, dumping his pizza back into the box in the universal gesture for _I'm done_. “I'm assuming that's the owner. Are you seriously name-dropping on a post-sex pizza date?”

Steve smiles into his pizza. “Well, if you got it...” he says.

“Well you already know you got it,” James answers, but he picks his slice back up anyway. “We both do – you spent a nice hour or two giving it to _me_.” Steve laughs, and James points at the box. “This your favorite place?” 

Steve nods, avoiding the hot cheese swinging in strings from the slice in his hand.

“Lombardi's? In Manhattan, yeah,” he says. “Nobody beats Totono's for pies in Brooklyn, though. Maybe I'll take you some time.”

James examines his slice carefully during the next few seconds, apparently avoiding the implication of Steve's words. Steve chews the inside of his lip – okay. So the kid doesn't want to date outside the tower, it's not like this arrangement isn't reasonable enough.

“I never have time to go all over to figure out where I want to eat,” James says, and Steve just looks at him for a moment or two. “I just find one place I like and I stick with it.”

“That's what I did,” he says. “Just not recently. You're eating New York pizza that's older than I am.”

James' eyebrows go up, and Steve has him pegged immediately.

“Don't do it,” he says, but James does it anyway.

“Looks pretty good for a hundred year old pie.”

“Kids today,” Steve says, and James laughs – a warm, open thing. “No respect.”

Steve turns out to be right with his original assumption – James gives up on the pizza after his first slice. Steve finishes that one and has the whole veggie pie too before he's sated enough to make it to his next meal, and then he gets up to clear the boxes away.

James says “ugh” and flops onto the floor to stare at the ceiling. “I'm stuffed.”

Steve takes the boxes to the kitchen, shoves them in the oven to be out of the way.

There's a joke to be made there somewhere but Steve's too mature to make it. Instead, he watches James lying there for a second or five, switches on the coffee pot and, when he goes back over, James doesn't lift his head or move much more than his eyes in order to watch.

Steve doesn't do much by way of pretending, or playing coy. He stands at James' feet until James wets his lips, and then he kneels down on the floor at James' feet, slides his palms up James' legs, over his hips, to the hem of his boxers. He curls his fingers around the fabric and tugs them down, and James lets him, so that James is dressed only in Steve's turtleneck and blushing even as he smirks, even as he spreads his legs to accommodate Steve. 

“See something you like?” James asks, and Steve laughs softly, delighted by James' boldness as he tugs at the belt of his bathrobe to unfasten it, tags gleaming against his skin.

“Don't think the shirt suits you,” he answers, leaning down as James' legs come up to hug his hips, “take it off.”

***

James is absolutely full, no doubt about it. Good job Steve was gentle with him on the floor – no way could he manage rough now. He'd probably throw up, and he grimaces even as the thought makes him laugh. Plus the lack of carpet burn is always nice.

James is wrapped up in the bathrobe this time, because it was easier than maneuvering his uncooperative limbs back into the turtleneck. In exchange, Steve has gone to fetch pants or something.

Steve, Steve, Steve – it's still strange, so strange, to call him Steve. James worries at the terrycloth of Rogers' bathrobe where he's lying on the floor – it's nice. He's swimming in it but it smells like Rogers, and it might be all he's wearing but Rogers asked Jarvis to turn the temperature up so they wouldn't get cold. James wonders if he does this for all his...

What is James really? A conquest?

A two-night-stand?

He almost wondered if Rogers does this for all of his _boys_ and that's a weirder thought than James would like to entertain. I mean, obviously it's there, it's a possibility. And James wouldn't necessarily have heard about it because Rogers is not always in the public eye. None of the Avengers really are these days, not in any significant way. 

When James was younger – read, little – Captain America used to be on the front of gossip magazines. He used to be speculated about in newspapers, people used to blog and film and write about him, about all of the Avengers. 

James is happy things are the way they are now – happy that the newspapers don't go after Commander Rogers or the Avengers with nearly as much tenacity, happy that – for a lot of people besides the Avengers – people are obligated to think twice about what stories they're publishing, what news they're videoing.

But it means that he's got no clue how many notches there are on Rogers' bedpost. Steve's bedpost. 

And James has been through this thought-process before. If this is what Rogers wants from their encounters then it's not the end of the world, no sir. Rogers is so, so good-looking. He's gorgeous, and he's funny, and he smells nice and he's clean. He pays for coffees, Chinese, and pizza and-

James' thoughts come screeching to a halt - Okay, shit, wait a second, fuck. 

Is...

Fuck, is that why Rogers bought him a coffee? Is that why Rogers is feeding him Chinese and pizza, like, is James exchanging... _food_ for _sex_? That's absurd. There's no way.

Because...he's worth a lot more than that? But also because that's not what he's doing. No _way_ is that what he's doing-

Is that what he's doing?

He pulls the halves of the bathrobe a little tighter and sits up, chewing his lip. He looks over in the direction Rogers went.

James gets up. The coffee on the counter should be commitment-free, right? He can totally pretend it is. He pours himself a cup – feels like an absolute dick when he has to search the cupboard for two mugs, because he needs two mugs but this is Steve Rogers' kitchen and James is poking about in it – but he gets one and makes his coffee the way he likes it, and then he leaves the other mug there because he doesn't know Rogers' preference. He doesn't go anywhere – God forbid he fall over his own feet and throw coffee all over Rogers' nice cream-colored carpet – but he turns around and sets the small of his back against the kitchen counter and holds his mug up to his face.

It's good coffee, but also, holding the mug up will allow him to hide his expression until he can figure out what's going on. 

Rogers comes back in, just in sweatpants and dogtags which is unfair and also cheating, and he's frowning when he turns to face the kitchen. It's kind of nice the way his expression clears when he looks at James.

“There you are,” he says.

“I moved,” James tells the coffee mug, and Rogers nods as he walks over.

“I can see that,” he says.

There's no preamble – and James finds it kind of exciting to know that Steve Rogers is this...

What's the nice way to say horny?

And James is one of the few people on the planet who knows!

“Come here,” Rogers says, even though James isn't moving at all and Rogers is literally coming over to him while he says this.

But then he takes the coffee cup out of James' hands and reaches out with one long arm to put it away well out of knocking-over distance. 

He ends up standing right up against James, just shy of pinning him to the counter because okay, Rogers is sexy, but having the hard edge of a kitchen counter digging into your back is like not sexy at all.

Rogers settles his hands on James' hips, on top of that one, single, terrycloth layer, so that the heat of his hands is strong but he's still not making skin contact. James knows he's totally doing it on purpose. Rogers tightens his grip and James doesn't yelp when Rogers lifts him onto the counter like he weighs about the same as maybe _one_ of the pizzas, but it's a close run thing.

But then Rogers is kissing him and pushing the bathrobe open, apart, warm palms up James' thighs and James-

James really likes that.

Rogers is already between his legs just because of how they're standing, but one of his massive hands moves, slides up James' shoulder and into his hair, cradling the back of his skull like he's precious so that he can fit them together better while his other hand wanders, and James reaches out for him, warm, smooth skin over firm muscle, mapping Rogers' chest and shoulders with his fingers. His pectorals are broad with the tags nestled between them, the nipples hard, his stomach is firm and ridged, and the breadth of his shoulders is just unfair, and James only gives in to touching him because it feels so _good._

“I could still order out for dessert,” he says, but James knows why he's saying it – it's a reason to use his _voice_ like that.

Rogers' mouth moves to James' cheek, to his earlobe and then the soft patch of skin below it, down over his jugular and James pulls him closer with his hands and with his legs. Rogers goes easily, pressing himself into James. James is just having to tilt his head back for Rogers to tug the collar of the bathrobe aside when Rogers says,

“Sure there's nothing else you want?” the smile audible in his voice, his teeth scraping against James' skin.

And he's being sexy and double-entendre-like and whatnot, and James loves it but he's nervous and anxious so instead of laughing or saying something smart, he says, 

“Are you buying me off?” and then wishes one hundred percent that he had actually literally never been born.

Rogers has gone very still, it occurs to him, and he doesn't take his hand from James' hair but he does lean back to look at him. This still only puts them maybe six inches apart but it enables James to see the confusion on Rogers' face.

“Is,” he says, and then there's a very long silence. “...that why you didn't call?” he says.

And no, okay, James was wrong before.

 _Now_ he wishes one hundred percent that he had actually literally never been born, not only because that was probably one of the most embarrassing sentences he's ever had the bad judgment to say out loud, but also because he hadn't realized Captain America could sound so resigned and that his smile would look so heartbreaking when he did.

~ 

That would make sense. And it's a very kind untruth if James is trying to let him down gently.

It doesn't feel true – that's for certain – but perhaps he's wrong. After all, it's not an ideal situation for Steve to be oblivious to. Steve's never paid for sex in his life nor, as far as he's aware, had he ever hired someone with that intent, but the situation does kind of make some sort of sense if he thinks about it?

_Buy me a coffee and I'll follow you anywhere..._

_My ex...uh, bought this for me..._

You want me to buy you another coffee.

_Is that an invitation?_

James doesn't seem like the kind of man to need so subsidize his job with that kind of arrangement, but then Steve's not a Neanderthal, despite the lingering opinions of some of the press and some of the public. He knows about sex and he knows about drugs and he's aware of the internet.

And he doesn't mean it in a n old fashioned way, either. People assume, when he says these things, that he means he's heard of them, he's vaguely aware. It's not like that – Steve knows how to fuck, misses the mellow of good reefer, and has a specific set of categories he enjoys on a specific set of porn sites. 

He knows about sex workers – he used to live in a neighborhood full of them, and they were always pretty nice to him and...

And now, in this day and age, he hears about sex workers primarily because they're still not treated like human beings. He remembers Tootsie and Charm and Baby Ruth and the lives they lived on the corner of his street all those years ago, the dangers they faced. He knows about show girls and blue-movie actresses and all of that, and he knows about Sugar Partners.

But it's as the thought occurs to Steve that he realizes...he can live with this, if that's how it is. Pay what he owes, if he owes, because if James needs the money then James needs the money. And if it's a Sugar-daddy James wants, Steve can live with that, too. For starters, it's not the first time he's considered being part of an arrangement like that – he hasn't thought about it for a while, of course, and was young enough the last time he gave it serious thought to be considering _both sides_ of the arrangement.

For someone with almost thirty years of loneliness under their belt at that time, the idea of being a kept man had been very little more than a fantasy, but a very appealing one nonetheless.

Steve's a lot more on board with being a Sugar-daddy than he realized, actually, can picture himself lavishing gifts on James and taking him ridiculous places and spending all the time he should be at important, boring functions, in bed with James instead.

And he's just about to say this. He gets as far as,

“Because if that's how you want this to work then-”

“I didn't call because it's you,” James says and Steve feels the remaining hope he holds sink like a lead balloon.

Of course.

“I see,” he says.

“I thought, you know, it's Commander Rogers, he's probably busy, it might not be his number...I talked myself out of it,” James says, the words bitten out and far too quiet. “Thought you'd be busy.”

“Ah-huh,” Steve says. 

He wonders about it for a few seconds, considers the kind of statement that is. Does he really believe someone as good-looking and intelligent as James managed to talk himself out of calling a man who specifically gave him his number?

James is good looking and smart but he's also twenty-one. Steve talked himself out of plenty of ridiculous things when he was that age – walking away from fights that he knew would be bad before it started, for example, or ignoring the kind of affection that he might have found requited if he'd only convinced himself to ask instead of convincing himself not to.

James is smart but he hasn't lived a life yet. Believing him now works for both of them.

“I ain't busy now for two weeks,” Steve says, soft and low. “You got a pet at home, James?”

James pulls back, frowns, looks at him then, and he looks every bit as young as he is, his plush lips turned down, his eyebrows drawn together and still without a wrinkle on his brow.

“No?” he says.

“Then why don't you stay the night?” Steve says.

James chews his lower lip, looks Steve up and down. Steve lets him think about it, and he waits as James glances at the front door and the couch and the floor and then towards the bedroom – all the places they've been.

Then he nods once.

“Okay,” he breathes.

Steve kisses him, says “Hold tight,” against James' mouth, and James either knows or figures out what Steve is going to do before he does it, wrapping his legs around Steve's hips as Steve lifts him off the counter.

It's not a strain. Steve has lifted concrete beams and buses before now – James is light as a feather, thin even though his body indicates he works out. And Steve doesn't need to see where he's going in order to get there, walking to his bedroom with James wrapped around him.

***

James didn't really know his body could do this sort of thing. He's read all sorts of things on the internet and in trashy novels and on forums and in chatrooms, and he always thought the thing about floating on air was a metaphor, except he's not really sure if his mind is part of his body any more.

He's lying on his back in the middle of Rogers' nice, firm bed, with the lights out and his eyes half closed, Rogers lit entirely by the orange-yellow glow of Manhattan at night. He's something out of a dream, a fantasy, as naked as James is but kneeling between his legs, towering over him on the mattress. James is swathed in pillows and utterly pliant as Rogers drives into him, over and over, slow and smooth enough that the pleasure is a high James could float on, he feels like he's in water or weightless or something – he's pretty sure he's half-asleep.

Rogers keeps checking on him though, making sure he's still present, and James just stares up at him, at this physically perfect paragon of truth, justice and etc. etc., and wonders how the hell he appealed to a man like this. 

“You tell me,” Rogers says, his voice low and gentle and persistent, like everything he does, “you tell me when you're close.”

James does, can't help it, an Rogers just smiles and encourages, and keeps them both going for a little longer.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Enjoying your lunch?” James says, and Rogers raises a perfect eyebrow at him.
> 
> “This is my starter,” he says. “My main course hasn't finished his brunch yet.”

James wakes when Commander Steven G. Rogers smooths his thick, warm fingers through his hair. James was one-hundred percent not awake until that point, and he doesn't startle because he registers the touch and the nice bed and the _really_ nice pillows before anything else.

The he remembers where he is.

“Blugh?” James asks, his skin feeling hot and soft, and Steve laughs.

James goes from being all but face-down in the pillow to squinting at the enormous block of sunshine currently staring down at him, and then startles so hard it kind of hurts his lungs. For a moment, he was faced with someone he'd never seen before.

“Oh, sorry,” Rogers says, and sounds like he means it. “I'm sorry, I didn't think it'd get you that bad.”

James blinks at him, then pushes himself up onto his hands and turns over so he can sit up and get a better look.

“How long was I asleep?” he says, only half-kidding.

Rogers is sporting a dark blond beard that's graying in select, symmetrical places because of course it is, but it's on its way to being a full beard. He's also wearing only those gray sweatpants, but James can ignore that for a moment or six.

“Just a night,” Rogers tells him. “This is what happens when I don't shave.”

James feels himself going bug-eyed.

“How long did you not shave for?” he says.

All day and all night,” Rogers says, “but then I went for a run and then I had breakfast. And then I made you brunch.”

James becomes aware of the nightstand, which has a tray full of food on it and, okay, hell yeah, James isn't about to turn it down! 

“Sorry for freaking out,” he says, as Rogers gestures that he should get comfortable.

“It's all right,” Rogers tells him, settling the tray over James' legs. “I get it.”

James opens his mouth to make a joke about how freaky it is waking up and thinking a week has passed or something, but then he remembers who he's speaking to, remembers that the soft-spoken _'I get it_ ' is not a meaningless platitude.

Plus there's _bacon!_

Rogers starts to move around the place – doesn't come and sit down with him or anything but stays in the general vicinity. He goes in the bathroom and comes out clean-shaven, he rummages in cupboards, ducks into the closet for a minute or two. He dresses, he leaves and comes back – he's evidently a busy kinda guy. James wonders how his original assessment of Rogers' busyness will hold up.

When Rogers comes back, he's carrying a plate full of cold pizza. James isn't jealous in the slightest. He has waffles, bacon, eggs, sausage, croissants, a lox and cream cheese bagel, a muffin he thinks might be parmesan and herb-

And fresh coffee on the nightstand, next to what's probably a mimosa. James doesn't particularly like them – he's not a fan of OJ or champagne – but he's probably going to drink it anyway. He's allowed to now, for a start, but also Rogers procured it for him somehow.

“How'd you get all this?” James asks, and Rogers looks at him.

“Tower's full of food places,” he says. “Next time, I'll bake.”

James nearly swoons.

“You bake?” he says.

“I do most things,” Rogers answers. “I'm pretty self-sufficient.”

James narrows his eyes in pretend irritation at the sarcasm, but his mouth is full so he doesn't speak until his mouth is empty, which is just about when Rogers takes a bite of stale dough, cold sauce and congealed cheese.

“Enjoying your lunch?” James says, and Rogers raises a perfect eyebrow at him.

“This is my starter,” he says. “My main course hasn't finished his brunch yet.”

James laughs so suddenly he has to cover his mouth with his hand a moment later. Rogers is pretending to be unimpressed, but James can see the edge of his smile working through. 

He's almost finished eating when he thinks to ask,

“How come if you had that beard, you don't get hair on your chest?”

“Honestly?” Rogers says. “I wish I knew.”

***

When James is done with brunch, and what they've both agreed on as 'dessert,' he takes another shower. There's a towel set out for him, and there are more bottles in here than last time, and James is sort of torn between using the new ones and using the one he used last time. Last time, there was only one, so it must have been Rogers'. But what if the new little ones are important?

He uses Rogers' again. If he ever has occasion to need the shower 'next time,' then he'll ask. 

There's a toothbrush still wrapped in plastic by the sink, and a razor, and he uses both before he turns to decide what he's going to do next, but it's then that he sees a bathrobe hanging from the back of the door. It isn't Rogers' bathrobe, because Rogers wore it yesterday and that thing's white.

This one is gray, and looks more like fleece than terrycloth it's so plush. It also has huge letters emblazoned across one lapel and it's shorter in length – looks like it's either meant to fit someone maybe a foot shorter than Rogers, or to be verging on the indecent on a man like Rogers. Either way, it's designer, and he's a guest in the place. 

It's probably Rogers' – like a lounge jacket or something. And the one he wore yesterday will have been the spare.

He sticks his head out into the bathroom and spots white terrycloth on the back of one of the chairs, so he changes into that because he's not sure where his clothes are. They weren't folded neatly in the corner like last time, so he'll have to ask about that, too.

He goes into the living room, the hem of the thick, white bathrobe swinging around his ankles, and Rogers turns to face him with a smile that fades just a little. He glances to one side and then back at James.

“Gray not your colour?” he asks, and James feels his eyebrows raise.

“I thought that was yours,” he says.

Rogers looks him up and down and James fights the urge to cover himself even though he's already covered. Rogers has eyes that are very, very intense. They're blue, like James' own, and they're not a special kind of blue. They don't look like seas or skies, or summer memories, they're just blue, but there's so much behind them – so much intelligence and scrutiny and history and intent. They could be dull grey and it wouldn't matter – James would still feel like that gaze is burning holes in his clothes and counting every pore his skin has.

“You're _wearing_ mine,” he says, and it's not said like an accusation or an admonishment. 

It's simple, straightforward - neutral tone with underlying implication, and James almost feels like he ought to take it off.

“I can give you a break,” Rogers tells him, gaze unwavering, unblinking as he stares, “or we could go again.”

“Uh,” James says, which is absolutely not eloquent at all. “I, uh, I've...Maybe in a little while?”

“Sure,” Rogers says, and stares at him a little while longer.

When he looks away, it's like a physical tether has been severed between them – James almost sways backwards out of instinct. And he _does_ need a break. He's twenty-one but Rogers is superhuman, and James plans on being able to walk tomorrow.

But it's tempting – really tempting, more tempting than anything else he can think of currently. And if Rogers just so happens to ask if he's sure, James isn't certain he'll maintain his resolve.

Rogers is dressed differently today, properly instead of hanging around in sweatpants. He's only in jeans and a tee but he looks amazing in it. People used to make fun of him online for the fit of his clothes. Gossip rags and drama blogs would crow about his lack of style, laugh at how he didn't seem to be able to buy clothes his size.

As soon as he was old enough to read them, James hated them, whether he thought they were right or not. Firstly, if Steve Rogers didn't know how to dress in the twenty-first century, when he was living in a new world with new technology and having lost _everybody he ever knew_ , who the _hell_ were bitter, tactless, rubbernecking _backstabbers_ to snipe about it from behind the anonymity of computer screens and the protection of a cushy office full of yes-men? 

And maybe it had been that way to start with. 

Of course, practicality comes into it – nobody's about to go jogging in swing pants and a cape, for one example. A cashmere onesie probably isn't that fantastic for fighting killer robots, for another. But showing up on late-night talk-shows in mouth-wateringly high-quality impeccably-tailored suits, or 'casually' turning up at rallies for certain social issues that might need slightly more publicity in a tee that's basically a second skin, with all the paparazzi in tow because of it?

Steve Rogers has been hailed as one of history's master tacticians. James has never understood why people expected that to change.

Now, though, they're not at a rally or on a talk show, they're not trying to raise ratings or sell photos, there's no money to be made. Which means that Rogers, who is currently sitting at one end of the couch and reading an honest-to-god paper newspaper, is putting on a certain show all for James.

And isn't that a thrill?

Because those are definitely Rogers' nipples pushing at the fabric. 

“Cold?” James asks, and Rogers doesn't even look up from the paper.

“No,” he answers, in a tone that suggests he knows exactly why James is asking. “Would you like me to pull up Netflix?”

James nods, wary of Rogers the way he feels an antelope might be wary of a cheetah. In the same way, he knows he absolutely doesn't have a chance if Rogers decides to turn on the charm (does he ever turn it off?).

Steve asks Jarvis to do it, because of course he does, and James sees a little 'James' profile already set up for him on Rogers' account.

“Watch whatever you'd like,” Steve says.

“Can I grab a coffee first?” James asks, and _then_ Steve looks at him.

“Of course?” he says. “There's pizza left, too, if you want to warm some up.”

So, five minutes later when James sits down with a coffee and a plate of lukewarm pizza – plus a coffee for Rogers, which earns James a small, grateful smile – he already knows what he wants to watch.

“I'm like halfway through ' ~~Super~~ **human** ' right now,” he says, looking at Rogers for confirmation.

“I've heard of that,” he says. “I saw billboards in Times Square.”

James nods. “Superheroes lose their powers,” he says. 

“Mmm, they always were fairly good at the topical. I suppose that's what we are these days.”

There's a short silence, during which Rogers seems to lose himself in some memory or another. But then he shakes his head a little.

“Feel free,” Steve says. “Anything you want.”

And so James settles down for a few episodes of ' ~~Super~~ **human** ' projected onto the living room wall. He knows too much about it, of course he does, but so do most people who follow it, which means that nobody is even really pretending they're not playing the original Avengers.

***

Halfway through the first episode James watches, Rogers swaps his paper for his tablet and starts to read something else. He lifts one arm towards James and it takes James a second to realize that Rogers means to _cuddle._ James shuffles closer once he realizes. So Rogers reads his book and James watches his show, until he gives up on watching another four episodes later.

(It's after the Brian and Bjorn episode, when the next episode's preview shows up in black and white. Everybody who's a fan of the Ethan, the now-ex-time-traveling character, knows that the black and white episode centers on his flashbacks.

Somehow, James doesn't think that'd go down to well.)

He's about to ask if he can get Jarvis to queue up something else, when Rogers speaks first.

“I don't know how you're feeling,” he says into the crown of James' skull, breath warming him all the way down to the nape of his neck, “but I thought you might like to switch seats.”

James bites his lip as the arm Rogers had innocuously slung around his waist an hour and a half ago tightens enough to pull him just a little closer. James is once again very aware of how little he's wearing.

“Where's my clothes?” he says. 

Rogers' grip eases a little.

“I...was having them cleaned,” he says. “In-tower, of course. If you want them, I can call for them now.”

“Just wondered,” James says, and he turns where he sits, draws his legs up onto the couch and moves closer.

Rogers takes one of his hands, helps him balance as he kneels up, and then there's only one way to go, and that's into Rogers' lap. And so James goes, getting his knees either side of Rogers' huge thighs just as Rogers pulls him close, grinding James' growing erection up against his lower stomach. 

“Mmm,” Rogers says, the sound humming through James' body, and then one of Rogers' hands is on the small of his back, the other on the back of James' head, and they're kissing.

James opens his mouth immediately, groans without meaning to – Rogers is good at a lot of things, this included, and he kisses simultaneously like he has all the time in the world and no time at all. James can feel every bit of desperation, every bit of want behind it, but Rogers doesn't let him speed it up, stroking his hand up and down James' spine, tilting his head this way and that.

At one point, he draws away completely and pulls James' head back by his hair – not hard, but insistently – mouthing his way down James' throat once he's bared it. James just plants his hands on the warm fabric over the firm muscle of Rogers' chest and closes his eyes, smiles.

James sighs into a laugh, drops one hand to palm him through his jeans. James can't remember the last time he made out on a couch with someone, but Rogers is clearly appreciative – and also very good at it – and he's not even cold even though he comes out in goosebumps the next time Rogers' fingertips slide down his spine.

Rogers' arms come up around him, strong and warm as Rogers kisses him again. 

It's a couple more seconds before Rogers lets his head fall back again, and then one hand is gone, and then, abruptly, there's a thud that James feels through his whole body, and it feels like he's falling.

He yelps as he pulls away, even though Rogers' grip on him is steady, but Rogers looks like the cat that got the cream, that lazy smile still fixed in place, his lips pink and wet, his eyes half open. 

“Recliner,” James says as his heart rate slows down again. “Right.”

Rogers just chuckles, pulls James down again and he's almost lying down now, the seat having tilted back and extended. It's almost like riding him and James gets the rest of the way hard for thinking about it. It's not even as though he can hide it – the bathrobe was never all that concealing to start with and he looks down to find that the tip of his cock is tenting the terrycloth. 

Rogers looks down too, laughs softly and sounds absolutely delighted about it, and he moves one flap of the terrycloth aside with a single finger. 

“That looks ridiculous,” James says, as his cock peeks out.

“Mmm,” Rogers says, and he strokes the underside with one fingertip.

James is reminded of chucking a small creature under the chin.

“ _You're_ ridiculous,” he says.

“Oh, definitely,” Rogers answers.

Rogers doesn't look nearly rumpled enough, and James sinks his fingers into Rogers' hair which, it turns out, is the right thing to do.

Rogers' smile falters and his eyelids flutter, and he groans, a rasp in the back of his throat. James massages with his fingertips and Rogers abandons James' cock to grab his head with both hands, kisses him this time as though they might both melt into the cushions.

James brings his body a little more forward, so that his hair hangs down around them, so that Rogers is fully laid out beneath him. His fingertips brush over a prickly section in Rogers' hair and he realizes in one amazingly serious moment that Rogers heals quickly, but his hair is still a little behind. He's feeling the shorter swathe in Rogers' hair that's the only remaining indication of his serious head injury. 

“Hey,” James says, just as Rogers starts mouthing his throat again, huge hands roaming all over him. “Wait.”

Rogers does, pulls back and looks at him, looks him up and down, _checking him over_.

“No, I'm fine,” James says, in answer to the question Rogers hasn't asked.

“I concur,” Rogers says, and James snorts.

“Very smooth,” James assures him. “But I want to do this one.”

Rogers looks at him like he's speaking a different language for a moment or two.

“Wanna run that by me again?” he says, and James smiles, catches his lower lip between his teeth the way people only ever do in movies, and does his best to look at Rogers from under his eyelashes.

“I said,” he says, extending one hand to push against Rogers' chest, even though Rogers is not sitting up at all. But, James drops his other hand to Rogers' lap, finds and squeezes the thick, half-hard length that's lying along the line where Rogers' thigh meets his torso, hidden by denim that does absolutely nothing to actually conceal the shape of it. “I want to do this one.”

Rogers' whole demeanor has changed, the movement of his hands stilted on James' body, his fingers twitching. He looks a lot more serious, a lot less sure, and James wonders if he's hit some sort of limit here.

“I,” Rogers says, and he shakes his head a little. “You...don't have to do that?”

James is not expecting that. 

“I know,” he says. “I mean, I want to but if you need a reason, consider this my taking a break.”

Rogers just stares at him, evidently thinking a million and one things and finding it difficult to voice one.

“Okay,” he says, and he unzips Rogers without messing around any more.

“That's...” Rogers says, but James doesn't think about that now.

If Rogers wanted him to stop, if Rogers were wanting to stop him, it would be easy.

James has seen footage of Captain America drop-kicking _small vehicles_ in the middle of more intense fights. 'Easy' nothing - James wouldn't stand a chance.

Rogers is still looking at his face, still staring with his eyebrows drawn together and his mouth closed, but James gets him out, gives him two long strokes, and it's like he's flipped the magic switch. 

Rogers' eyes flutter closed, his mouth opens just a little on the quietest, sexiest moan James has ever heard anybody give (okay he's biased and not hugely experienced but _come on_ ). He thinks Rogers is lifting his chin but it turns out his head's falling back instead

“You were tense, huh?” James asks and then Rogers sinks into the reclined chair so thoroughly James sinks down with him maybe three inches, almost as though his body's started to come apart at the seams. “God, you really _were_ tense.”

Rogers looks like somebody's unlocked his cage or unlaced his corset or something – his ribcage is _huge_ when it expands like that – and James just strokes him, nice and firm and slow, watches his foreskin begin to retract as he firms up right there under James' fingers, smiles as his fingers curl and uncurl, as his arms kind of lift and then drop back down again.

“Hmmmm,” he says, and it looks more like he's about to go to sleep than anything. 

James is all kinds of amazed – he's seen guys get worked up real fast, seen guys start helping out within a couple of seconds, but this is like Rogers can't wait for this to take all day. James chuckles a little, and Rogers' eyebrows go up, his eyes open a little.

He's not exactly smiling, but his expression isn't quite so pinched, and his body's basically turned to liquid.

James pushes at the hem of Rogers' shirt, rucks it up and gets a nice feel of his abs, hard and ridged and prominent – James can't wait to make him come all over them. Rogers lets him shift the fabric, too, and James wonders how long his luck'll hold if he pushes it.

He gets the shirt up a little more, and a little more, up until he reaches Roger's pecs, and then he stops, sucks his lower lip between his teeth, runs the tips of his fingers over all the ridges to waste a few seconds, but he pushes the shirt up a little more, a little more.

He bares the first swell of Rogers' pectorals, strokes the underside and then watches Rogers' nipples harden and grow dark as the fabric brushes over them, past them, until the tags hang down against his skin from the folded fabric, and he's bare all the way down from his collarbone to the short, wiry golden curls at the base of his dick.

James isn't sure where to go from here but he's come this far, Rogers' dick is hard and hot and heavy and thick in his hand, and James can't suck it from this angle – isn't sure he needs to right this second. He likes the feel of it in his fingers, likes stroking it to see the way Rogers reacts, and Rogers watches him very carefully.

His gaze is so intense, so unwavering, and James wets his lips to watch Rogers' eyes track the motion, squeezes his fingers just to watch Rogers draw a long, slow breath inward, and then he runs the back of his fingers along the underside of one pectoral, turns his hand over to brush one nipple with the pad of his thumb. Rogers' eyelids do flutter at that, his brows do twitch inward, and so James resumes the slow-but-steady motion of his hand as he leans down, eyes on Rogers' eyes as far as he can, and gets his mouth on that nipple.

Rogers doesn't quite hiss, his mouth open, but James definitely sees more teeth, definitely hears the rush of air as he gasps, definitely feels the shift in Rogers' body – his legs spread just a little wider, his hips roll upward languidly the next time James' hand slides down his length. 

James can't help it, he smiles, and Rogers just rolls his head on his shoulders, rolls his shoulders in turn, as though he's not in control of any of it, his mouth falling open. It's one of the hottest things James has ever seen and _James is making it happen!_

Rogers is so quiet – that's something James has noticed. He's made noise during sex, if he's been exerting himself, and they've had conversations, but his voice is always measured, and often quiet. It's no less impactful for it, but he moans so softly that it feels like a secret, and James lifts his free hand to the other nipple, manipulating with his fingers.

Rogers' head goes right back, he seems to stretch like a cat in sunlight – James hasn't really been with a guy who likes to _relax_ during sex and it's beautiful to see, even if his angle is a little limited.

“Uhn, it...might take me a while,” Rogers says, and his voice is rough and breathy.

James chuckles against his skin, tightens his fingers, and only lifts off to say, 

“I've got nowhere to be.”

~

Steve doesn't know where to put his hands – wasn't expecting this kind of reciprocation – but find it's difficult to think past the haze of every nerve singing. It's strange for his body to ache these days, but he feels an ache nonetheless in the middle of his chest, each cell stretched to its limit as though magnetized to James.

Steve realizes, even as he thinks it, how ridiculous it is that something so simple, and something so _sexual_ , should feel the way it does. It's as though his whole body has been wanting for _this_ \- not the tryst a month ago, not the copious amounts of sex he's had since yesterday, but _this_ , James' hands on him, James' mouth, James' proximity.

It strikes him then that it's terribly selfish of him to think that way – this is a man half his age, presumably less experienced (although, considering Steve's less-than-impressive love life, not necessarily), who's tired and overworked and who's trying to tide Steve over long enough to put the brakes on his ridiculous runaway locomotive of a libido. 

For Steve to sit here like this is the best part is kind of, really, incredibly unfair.

But it feels so _good_ , like it felt good this afternoon when James was watching his show and sharing space and body heat, like it felt last night to be sleeping beside someone warm who smiled when he pulled them closer.

Out of everything they've done over the course of the past day and a half, nothing's thrown him for a loop quite like this.

His breath stutters inward, his fingers flex against the couch – he wants to hold but knows his own strength, and it's only when James nips at his skin that his hand comes up automatically, sinking into James hair to keep him where he is. He doesn't force him, doesn't cling even though his fingers long to, but he cradles James' skull, fingers threaded in James' still-damp hair. He lifts his other hand a moment later – he can be careful even like this, he'll be careful as long as James doesn't stop, doesn't leave – and tucks his fingers into the crook of James' knee under the terrycloth, just to anchor himself, just to have his hands on James. 

It doesn't seem like this is a chore for James, and Steve doesn't really know how much of it is acting, how much of it is placating him. If James needs the break, that's fine – maybe he didn't think Steve would listen if he just said it, maybe he thought he had to placate Steve somehow. Steve doesn't like the implication – not that James maybe doesn't trust him but that, if he doesn't, he's got reason not to.

It makes sense in the fog of Steve's brain – if James honestly thinks that Steve won't listen to him unless he's giving Steve something, then somebody must have made him think that.

“James,” Steve says, hears his own breath hitch and tries not to shudder with it.

“Mmm,” James hums against his skin, squeezes his fist tighter while the fingers of his other hand rest against Steve as though they're doing nothing more than sitting quietly together.

Steve isn't sure about how to broach the subject but he's going to want to talk about this in case James ever does it again, in case James ever needs a break. If whatever this is lasts long enough for it to be an issue.

~

James is quite happy to be where he is. Something he's said out loud once or twice, something people don't necessarily admit to even if they agree, is that he loves this kind of thing. Not sex – of course he loves sex. He's twenty-one and he's finally at a point where he's mostly in control of when and where he gets erections, almost always able to last as long as he wants. (And, when he's not....come on, it's _Steve Rogers_.)

He likes coming so hard his ears ring, likes getting pounded good and rough, likes spending hours intertwined and likes mutual handjobs. He likes everything from sixty-nining to giving it good, but damn if there isn't something special about moments like this.

There's something weirdly intimate about being this close to a person and taking care of them this way, something powerful in controlling somebody else's pleasure even if all he ever thinks of doing is providing more. The thing is, he loves having a beautiful dick in his hand, which Rogers has, loves the heat and hardness, loves the movement of velvet skin and the way one behaves when James is treating it nice. 

Rogers is winding up slowly, James can feel it in his muscle tension and the speed he's breathing at, the way his fingers flex in James' hair and press at the back of his knee.

He moans softly, keeps his eyes mostly closed and turns his head away as his body moves, and James doesn't let up with his hand or his mouth until he can feel Rogers hit the home straight.

“Oh,” he says, James watches him frown as his mouth opens, watches him turn his head away _again_ so that James only sees the underside of his jaw, and then his back is arching just enough that James has to move with him, his hips shift under James, and goosebumps sweep his whole body, from underneath his rucked up shirt, under James' lips and past the fingers he has pressed to Rogers' stomach.

His fingers let go of James' leg, of James' head though they're still in his hair, and he says,

“Oh, oh,” and comes all over James' fingers, abs crunching up visibly as he tips his head back.

He's still and silent for a few moments longer, until his shoulders flinch inward and his head lifts, and then do so again a moment later, his mouth open and eyes shut tight.

James keeps him going for a few seconds, while Rogers flattens out and hunches up a couple more times and then, he doesn't take James' hand to stop him, but looks like he might be reaching for it, so James stops anyway.

Rogers immediately sags in the chair, legs slack beneath James, arms dropping down to his sides, breathing hard and fast, his eyes still shut. He's slumped over to the other side a little and, when he opens his eyes, he looks surprised about the whole thing.

James is very very pleased with himself, and Rogers isn't even done.

“You want another one?” he says, and Rogers frowns, shakes his head.

He slides his hand into James' hair again and tugs him forward, up. James is expecting more of a kiss than he gets – it's brief, closed-mouth – but it's sweet anyway, and Rogers goes back to slumping in his seat a moment later.

It's nice, James allows himself to think, that all of that was because of him.

For this, with Steve Rogers? Yeah, James'll let himself gloat internally.

***

Later, when James is making coffee and Rogers tells him that he shouldn't feel obligated to do anything if he doesn't feel up to it, James gives him a deliberately funny look and says,

“Who hurt you?” and Rogers looks at him blankly. James feels himself color a little. “Uh, sorry, it's an internet thing,” he says. “The...” he clears his throat, “the phrase implies that someone's behaviour is the direct result of a detrimental encounter with someone else. But used in this context, it's a way to signal certain behaviour is unusual.” _Stop digging,_ his brain supplies, but that would evidently be too easy. “You know? It's like 'that's so weird there must be a reason for it.' Like _'I put milk in the bowl before the cereal; boy, who hurt you?'_ The...” he has to clear his throat again, “joke is that there isn't a reason for it.”

James hasn't felt this awkward in ages. Right, okay, Rogers may have been in this century for like fifteen plus years, but he probably doesn't spend his free time on social networking websites. He's an Avenger. He _probably_ had better things to fucking do, way to go James. 

But what's weird about that is that is that Rogers stares at him for a moment or two longer before he says,

“Right. Thank you for explaining,” and goes back to his book. 

For a second or two, James thinks he's pissed Rogers off with his rambling, but it might be worse. Because James realizes all at once that that isn't the look of a man with no reason for it.

“What do you do for fun?” Rogers asks a moment later, and James files the information away.

He's too late to ask now, it'd just be awkward.

“Uh,” he says instead. “I mean, there's Coney Island or the Statue of-”

Rogers looks at him – just _looks_ at him. James tries to eat his own lips in an attempt not to laugh.

“Kid, I am one hundred and eight years old,” he says. “Ain't one corner of this town I ain't seen either from topside or underneath so how about you quit sassin' me and answer my question?” 

James grins.

“I dunno,” he says, shrugging a little. “Seems to me you got a good handle on keepin' me entertained.”

Two can play at Turning-On-The-Brooklyn. Except Rogers is better at it.

“Oh I got plans for every second you're around, you trust me,” he says, “but I got a couple things need doin' this week, and you're gonna be real bored if you decide you're stayin'.”

James feels his confidence slip.

“Staying?” he says.

“Well you stayed last night,” Rogers tells him. “You're welcome to stay tonight also, and tomorrow if you feel like it. It'd save you getting' up early on Monday.”

James frowns.

“I....uh...”

Rogers waves a hand.

“Don't fret about it now, this ain't Riker's. What are you gonna do if you decide to stick around and I gotta go out?”

James blinks at him, thinks about this. He's mainly surprised at the implication that Rogers will let him just hang around the apartment without him. Obviously, he has Jarvis as security, so there's no real risk, but what if James knocks over a vase or something?

“Uh,” James says. “Mainly just the internet. You know, just...I catch up on news, look at pictures, all of that. Social media.”

“Right,” Rogers says, standing up and stalking over. “YouBook and the Tweeter and all that jazz.”

“I know you're kidding,” James says, “but that was physically painful.”

Rogers walks all the way up to him, so they're toe to toe and James is looking up at him.

“You still on your break?” Rogers murmurs, and James thinks about it, smiles as he ducks his head.

“I think I'm ready to get back to work,” he answers.

“Hmm,” Rogers says, curls his arms around James' body. “Then let me kiss that better for you, sweetheart."

James is completely okay with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Spoiler alert:** If you'd like to know the dates in this series, here's [a link to a timeline](https://66.media.tumblr.com/aac4be76b217f7b6ea54592e0a76d168/tumblr_inline_pg5mcewTA21rckout_500.png) of the first ten parts, with a short summary of each part. **Spoilers for parts 1-10, though.**

**Author's Note:**

> Ty to PetronellaRose, Otter, zacharypay1_Alisa and everybody who commented on the first part of this. 
> 
> And also to Dubiously - I promise we'll be getting there by the next part!
> 
> Bambi is my answer to Siri on the StarkPhone. I figure if he named his AI butler after his previous butler, it's conceivable that Tony would name his virtual assistant after a previous assistant. She deliberately isn't written with question marks because she always sounds like she's making a statement even if she's asking a question.
> 
> ' ~~Super~~ **human** ' is a Netflix original in this universe that fills the space Luke Cage and Daredevil etc fill in our universe. I figured that because superhero stuff is so popular in our non-powered universe, non-powered stuff might be equally as popular in a superhero universe.
> 
> Kudos to you if you caught this one, btw: The 97th precinct doesn't exist - the Red Hook region is actually covered by the 76th precinct. Two precincts over is the 78th precinct, which covers the Park Slope and Prospect Park areas. You know what other precinct in Brooklyn doesn't exist? ;)


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